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Артур Конан Дойл

     Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
     1859 - 1930
Проза Поэзия
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How It Happened

The Lift

A Hunting Morning

A Parable

A Tragedy


Old Huntsman

Pennarby Mine


The Blind Archer

The Franklin's Maid

The Guards Came Through

The Inner Room

The Irish Colonel

The Song Of The Bow

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              A Hunting Morning

                   Put the saddle on the mare, 
                       For the wet winds blow; 
                   There's winter in the air, 
                       And autumn all below. 
                   For the red leaves are flying 
                   And the red bracken dying, 
                   And the red fox lying 
                       Where the oziers grow. 

                   Put the bridle on the mare, 
                       For my blood runs chill; 
                   And my heart, it is there, 
                       On the heather-tufted hill, 
                   With the gray skies o'er us, 
                   And the long-drawn chorus 
                   Of running pack before us 
                       From the find to the kill. 

                   Then lead round the mare, 
                       For it's time that we began, 
                   And away with thought and care, 
                       Save to live and be a man, 
                   While the keen air is blowing, 
                   And the huntsman halloing, 
                   And the black mare going 
                       As the black mare can.


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                     Master went a-hunting, 
                       When the leaves were falling; 
                     We saw him on the bridle path, 
                       We heard him gaily calling. 
                   "Oh, master, master, come you back, 
                   For I have dreamed a dream so black!" 
                     A glint of steel from bit and heel, 
                       The chestnut cantered faster, 
                     A red flash seen amid the green, 
                       And so good-by to master. 

                     Master came from hunting, 
                       Two silent comrades bore him; 
                     His eyes were dim, his face was white, 
                       The mare was led before him. 
                   "Oh, master, master, is it thus 
                   That you have come again to us?" 
                     I held my lady's ice-cold hand, 
                       They bore the hurdle past her; 
                     Why should they go so soft and slow? 
                       It matters not to master.


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              Old Huntsman

                   There's a keen and grim old huntsman
                     On a horse as white as snow;
                   Sometimes he is very swift
                     And sometimes he is slow.
                   But he never is at fault,
                     For he always hunts at view
                   And he rides without a halt
                        After you.

                   The huntsman's name is Death,
                     His horse's name is Time;
                   He is coming, he is coming
                     As I sit and write this rhyme;
                   He is coming, he is coming,
                     As you read the rhyme I write;
                   You can hear the hoofs' low drumming
                        Day and night.

                   You can hear the distant drumming
                     As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
                   And the chiming of the hours
                     Is the music of his pack.
                   You may hardly note their growling
                     Underneath the noonday sun,
                   But at night you hear them howling
                        As they run.

                   And they never check or falter
                     For they never miss their kill;
                   Seasons change and systems alter,
                     But the hunt is running still.
                   Hark! the evening chime is playing,
                     O'er the long grey town it peals;
                   Don't you hear the death-hound baying
                        At your heels?

                   Where is there an earth or burrow?
                     Where a cover left for you?
                   A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
                     Brings the Huntsman's death halloo!
                   Day by day he gains upon us,
                     And the most that we can claim
                   Is that when the hounds are on us
                        We die game.

                   And somewhere dwells the Master,
                     By whom it was decreed;
                   He sent the savage huntsman,
                     He bred the snow-white steed.
                   These hounds which run for ever,
                     He set them on your track;
                   He hears you scream, but never
                        Calls them back.

                   He does not heed our suing,
                    We never see his face;
                   He hunts to our undoing,
                     We thank him for the chase.
                   We thank him and we flatter,
                     We hope - because we must -
                   But have we cause? No matter!
                        Let us trust!


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              Pennarby Mine

                   Pennarby shaft is dark and steep, 
                   Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep. 
                   Stout the bucket and tough the cord, 
                   Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford. 
                      "Never look down! 
                      Stick to the line!" 
                   That was the saying of Pennarby mine. 

                   A stranger came to Pennarby shaft. 
                   Lord, to see how the miners laughed! 
                   White in the collar and stiff in the hat, 
                   With his patent boots and his silk cravat, 
                      Picking his way, 
                      Dainty and fine, 
                   Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine. 

                   Touring from London, so he said. 
                   Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead? 
                   Where did they find it? How did it come? 
                   If he tried with a shovel might he get some? 
                      Stooping so much 
                      Was bad for the spine; 
                   And wasn't it warmish in Pennarby mine? 

                   'Twas like two worlds that met that day - 
                   The world of work and the world of play; 
                   And the grimy lads from the reeking shaft 
                   Nudged each other and grinned and chaffed 
                      "Got 'em all out!" 
                      "A cousin of mine!" 
                   So ran the banter at Pennarby mine. 

                   And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit, 
                   Told him the facts about the pit; 
                   How they bored the shaft till the brimstone smell 
                   Warned them off from tapping - well, 
                      He wouldn't say what, 
                      But they took it as sign 
                   To dig no deeper in Pennarby mine. 

                   Then leaning over and peering in, 
                   He was pointing out what he said was tin 
                   In the ten-foot lode - a crash! a jar! 
                   A grasping hand and a splintered bar. 
                      Gone in his strength, 
                      With the lips that laughed - 
                   Oh, the pale faces round Pennarby shaft! 

                   Far down on a narrow ledge, 
                   They saw him cling to the crumbling edge. 
                   "Wait for the bucket! Hi, man! Stay! 
                   That rope ain't safe! It's worn away! 
                      He's taking his chance, 
                      Slack out the line! 
                   Sweet Lord be with him!" cried Pennarby mine. 

                   "He's got him! He has him! Pull with a will! 
                   Thank God! He's over and breathing still. 
                   And he - Lord's sakes now! What's that? Well! 
                   Blowed if it ain't our London swell. 
                      Your heart is right 
                      If your coat is fine: 
                   Give us your hand!" cried Pennarby mine.


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              The Blind Archer

                   Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance, 
                   Shooting down at the ballroom floor; 
                   He hit an old chaperon watching the dance, 
                   And oh! but he wounded her sore. 
                      "Hey, Love, you couldn't mean that! 
                      Hi, Love, what would you be at?" 
                      No word would he say, 
                      But he flew on his way, 
                   For the little boy's busy, and how could he stay? 

                   Little boy Love drew a shaft for sport 
                   At the soberest club in Pall Mall; 
                   He winged an old veteran drinking his port, 
                   And down that old veteran fell. 
                      "Hey, Love, you mustn't do that! 
                      Hi, Love, what would you be at? 
                      This cannot be right! 
                      It's ludicrous quite!" 
                   But it's no use to argue, for Love's out of sight. 

                   A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apart 
                   Was planning a celibate vow; 
                   But the boy's random arrow has sunk in his heart, 
                   And the cell is an empty one now. 
                      "Hey, Love, you mustn't do that! 
                      Hi, Love, what would you be at? 
                      He is not for you, 
                      He has duties to do." 
                   "But I am his duty," quoth Love as he flew. 

                   The king sought a bride, and the nation had hoped 
                   For a queen without rival or peer, 
                   But the little boy shot, and the king has eloped 
                   With Miss No-one on nothing a year. 
                      "Hey, Love, you couldn't mean that! 
                      Hi, Love, what would you be at? 
                      What an impudent thing 
                      To make game of a king!" 
                   "But I'm a king also," cried Love on the wing. 

                   Little boy Love grew pettish one day; 
                   "If you keep on complaining," he swore, 
                   "I'll pack both my bow and my quiver away, 
                   And so I shall plague you no more." 
                      "Hey, Love, you mustn't do that! 
                      Hi, Love, what would you be at? 
                      You may ruin our ease, 
                      You may do what you please, 
                   But we can't do without you, you sweet little tease!"


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              The Guards Came Through

                   Men of the Twenty-first
                      Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
                   Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
                      Wanting our sleep and our food,
                   After a day and a night.
                      God, shall we ever forget?
                   Beaten and broke in the fight,
                      But sticking it, sticking it yet,
                   Trying to hold the line,
                      Fainting and spent and done;
                   Always the thud and the whine,
                      Always the yell of the Hun.
                   Northumberland, Lancaster, York,
                      Durham and Somerset,
                   Fighting alone, worn to the bone,
                      But sticking it, sticking it yet.

                   Never a message of hope,
                      Never a word of cheer!
                   Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope,
                      With the dull, dead plain in our rear;
                   Always the shriek of the shell,
                      Always the roar of the burst,
                   Always the tortures of Hell,
                      As waiting and wincing we cursed
                   Our luck, the guns, and the Boche.
                      When our Corporal shouted "Stand to!"
                   And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!" - 
                      And the Guards came through.

                   Our throats they were parched and hot,
                      But Lord, if you'd heard the cheer,
                   Irish and Welsh and Scot,
                      Coldstream and Grenadier - 
                   Two Brigades, if you please,
                      Dressing as straight as a hem.
                   We, we were down on our knees,
                      Praying for us and for them,
                   Praying with tear-wet cheek,
                      Praying with outstretched hand.
                   Lord! I could speak for a week,
                      But how could you understand?
                   How could your cheeks be wet?
                      Such feelin's don't come to you;
                   But how can me or my mates forget
                      When the Guards came through?

                   "Five yards left extend!"
                      It passed from rank to rank,
                   And line after line, with never a bend,
                      And a touch of the London swank.
                   A trifle of swank and dash,
                      Cool as a home parade,
                   Twinkle, glitter and flash,
                      Flinching never a shade,
                   With the shrapnel right in their face,
                      Doing their Hyde Park stunt,
                   Swinging along at an easy pace,
                      Arms at the trail, eyes front.
                   Man! it was great to see!
                      Man! it was fine to do!
                   It's a cot, and hospital ward for me,
                      But I'll tell them in Blighty wherever I be,
                   How the Guards came through.


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              The Song Of The Bow

                   What of the bow?
                       The bow was made in England:
                   Of true wood, of yew-wood,
                       The wood of English bows;
                          So men who are free
                          Love the old yew-tree
                   And the land where the yew-tree grows.

                   What of the cord?
                       The cord was made in England:
                   A rough cord, a tough cord,
                       A cord that bowmen love;
                          And so we will sing
                          Of the hempen string
                   And the land where the cord was wove.

                   What of the shaft?
                       The shaft was cut in England:
                   A long shaft, a strong shaft,
                       Barbed and trim and true;
                          So we'll drink all together
                          To the grey goose-feather
                   And the land where the grey goose flew.

                   What of the mark?
                       Ah, seek it not in England,
                   A bold mark, our old mark
                       Is waiting over-sea.
                          When the strings harp in chorus,
                          And the lion flag is o'er us,
                   It is there that our mark will be.

                   What of the men?
                       The men were bred in England:
                   The bowmen - the yeomen,
                       The lads of dale and fell.
                          Here's to you - and to you!
                          To the hearts that are true
                   And the land where the true hearts dwell.


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              A Parable

                   The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
                     And warmly debated the matter;
                   The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
                     And the Heretics said from the platter.
                   They argued it long and they argued it strong,
                     And I hear they are arguing now;
                   But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
                     Not one of them thought of a cow.


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                   There is a better thing, dear heart,
                     Than youthful flush or girlish grace.
                   There is the faith that never fails,
                     The courage in the danger place,
                   The duty seen, and duty done,
                     The heart that yearns for all in need,
                   The lady soul which could not stoop
                     To selfish thought or lowly deed.
                   All that we ever dreamed, dear wife,
                     Seems drab and common by the truth,
                   The sweet sad mellow things of life
                     Are more than golden dreams of youth.


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              A Tragedy

                   Who's that walking on the moorland?
                      Who's that moving on the hill?
                   They are passing 'mid the bracken,
                   But the shadows grow and blacken
                      And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.

                   Who's that calling on the moorland?
                      Who's that crying on the hill?
                   Was it bird or was it human,
                   Was it child, or man, or woman,
                      Who was calling so sadly on the hill?

                   Who's that running on the moorland?
                      Who's that flying on the hill?
                   He is there - and there again,
                   But you cannot see him plain,
                      For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.
                   What's that lying in the heather?
                      What's that lurking on the hill?
                   My horse will go no nearer,
                   And I cannot see it clearer,
                      But there's something that is lying on the hill.


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              The Franklin's Maid

                   The franklin he hath gone to roam, 
                   The franklin's maid she bides at home; 
                   But she is cold, and coy, and staid, 
                   And who may win the franklin's maid? 

                   There came a knight of high renown 
                   In bassinet and ciclatoun; 
                   On bended knee full long he prayed - 
                   He might not win the franklin's maid. 

                   There came a squire so debonair, 
                   His dress was rich, his words were fair. 
                   He sweetly sang, he deftly played - 
                   He could not win the franklin's maid. 
                   There came a mercer wonder-fine, 
                   With velvet cap and gaberdine; 
                   For all his ships, for all his trade, 
                   He could not buy the franklin's maid. 
                   There came an archer bold and true, 
                   With bracer guard and stave of yew; 
                   His purse was light, his jerkin frayed - 
                   Haro, alas! the franklin's maid! 
                   Oh, some have laughed and some have cried, 
                   And some have scoured the countryside; 
                   But off they ride through wood and glade, 
                   The bowman and the franklin's maid. 


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              The Inner Room

                   It is mine - the little chamber, 
                      Mine alone. 
                   I had it from my forbears 
                      Years agone. 
                   Yet within its walls I see 
                   A most motley company, 
                   And they one and all claim me 
                      As their own. 

                   There's one who is a soldier 
                      Bluff and keen; 
                   Single-minded, heavy-fisted, 
                      Rude of mien. 
                   He would gain a purse or stake it, 
                   He would win a heart or break it, 
                   He would give a life or take it, 

                   And near him is a priest 
                      Still schism-whole; 
                   He loves the censer-reek 
                      And organ-roll. 
                   He has leanings to the mystic, 
                   Sacramental, eucharistic; 
                   And dim yearnings altruistic 
                      Thrill his soul. 

                   There's another who with doubts 
                      Is overcast; 
                   I think him younger brother 
                      To the last. 
                   Walking wary stride by stride, 
                   Peering forwards anxious-eyed, 
                   Since he learned to doubt his guide 
                      In the past. 

                   And 'mid them all, alert, 
                      But somewhat cowed, 
                   There sits a stark-faced fellow, 
                   Whose black soul shrinks away 
                   From a lawyer-ridden day, 
                   And has thoughts he dare not say 
                      Half avowed. 

                   There are others who are sitting, 
                      Grim as doom, 
                   In the dim ill-boding shadow 
                      Of my room. 
                   Darkling figures, stern or quaint, 
                   Now a savage, now a saint, 
                   Showing fitfully and faint 
                      Through the gloom. 

                   And those shadows are so dense, 
                      There may be 
                   Many - very many - more 
                      Than I see. 
                   They are sitting day and night 
                   Soldier, rogue, and anchorite; 
                   And they wrangle and they fight 
                      Over me. 

                   If the stark-faced fellow win, 
                      All is o'er! 
                   If the priest should gain his will 
                      I doubt no more! 
                   But if each shall have his day, 
                   I shall swing and I shall sway 
                   In the same old weary way 
                      As before. 


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              The Irish Colonel

                   Said the king to the colonel,
                   "The complaints are eternal,
                     That you Irish give more trouble
                       Than any other corps."

                   Said the colonel to the king,
                   "This complaint is no new thing,
                     For your foemen, sire, have made it
                       A hundred times before."

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